


Burn The Dead

by SimplyEssa



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asphyxiation, Bard Lance (Voltron), Blood and Gore, Canon Typical Violence, Dark Magic, Elf Keith (Voltron), Fantastic Racism, Fighting, Fights, Fire Magic, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Homophobia Doesn't Exist In Witcher World, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, LOVE HIM, M/M, Mage Adam (Voltron), Mage Allura (Voltron), Mage Keith (Voltron), Mages, Magic, Making Out, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sort Of, The Witcher AU, Violence, Werewolves, Whump, Witcher Lotor (Voltron), Witcher Shiro (Voltron), Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), and last but not least, and sings, eventually, eventually again, happy face, he plays the lute, hes great tho, magical beings, my signature, mythical creatures, okay, only half, shiny swords, tahts it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyEssa/pseuds/SimplyEssa
Summary: Keith has been running for as long as he knows.From the past, from the laws, from the people he's angered.Soon enough, something is bound to catch up to him, and he knows it. He hopes he can run fast enough to avoid it, but the Universe has other plans for him.~=~Or; a Witcher and VLD AU no one asked for but me.
Relationships: Keith/Lotor (Voltron), Shiro/Adam (Voltron)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome, to the witcher vld fusion no one asked for that isnt even really a fusion
> 
> basically i did this rp with a friend who got writers block lowkey and golly i love her but >:( she left me HANGING
> 
> anyways!
> 
> additonal warning time:
> 
> graphic description of choking and nooses/being hung. skip from "The hand lets go but Keith’s--" to "--by the time he’s managed to gain his bearings" ! there is very heavy stuff in this chapter so watch out !!
> 
> anyways, thats about all??? i hope so at least
> 
> i really hope you guys enjoy this::: i had so much fun writing it!!! i recently got into the witcher and honestly... its so good!!! take a glance @ the ol screeno to watch it (yes that was stupid but im so tired its late as shit for me)
> 
> so there are PLENTY of chapters and i know the entire plot (im prepared!!!!!!!) but i only have about 10 planned at the moment. i have a vague estimate of how many chapters there should be, so that 15 can change at any given time ngl; either lower or higher
> 
> buckle up yall this is gonna be wild

Running, it seems, will always be present in his life.

There are several instances, of course, where Keith tried to run, only to be caught again, but right now… Right now, he would keep running. He  _ had  _ to keep running, unless he wanted to end up dead like his father had.

Shouts ring out behind him, making him flinch harshly as he turns a sharp corner, making his way around the abundance of trees. He’s much smaller than the people chasing him, fortunately, as they might not be able to squeeze through the forest as quickly as he can.

As much as he would like to summon a violent gust of flames to kill them, he can’t. One, if he does that, then he’ll only prove the rumours to be true; that all mages  _ are _ terrible like some people think. Two, it’s  _ said _ that any mages who use fire will burn up within seconds, but Keith’s never believed that. Finally, he’s got a cuff made out of Dimeritium hanging off his left wrist, preventing him from using any magic to kill them, and he isn’t exactly  _ advanced _ in the physical department.

His cloak whips behind him as he picks up the pace, launching himself over a fallen tree. While he doesn’t hear the hustle of their movements anymore, and though the shouts aren’t as loud as before, it doesn’t mean that they’re  _ gone _ . The metal of this cuff, fortunately for him, is expensive and hard to come by.  _ Unfortunately _ for him, they’re going to want it back.

Chancing a glance behind him, he sees that, well, they’re still chasing him, but, unlike him, they’re having a hard time maneuvering around the forest. He grins to himself when he sees one of them run into a tree branch and fall backwards with a choking noise—

There’s a sharp crack as he collides with something big, metallic, and—

“Did you hear that?”

“He must be nearby!”

The yelling gets closer as he groans, one hand planted behind his back to hold himself upright, and the other cupping his nose. Something wet drips down from his nostril, sliding over his lips, and he pulls his hand away to note with a frown that his hand is stained with blood. 

He grimaces, bringing his hand back to his nose and, despite how painful it is, presses his hand down onto the bridge of his nose to try and stop the bleeding. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice ending with a wheeze, one eye closed due to pain, and glares at the cuff still dangling from his wrist, as if he’s trying to scare it off of him. It would do him some good, if that could happen; that way, he could heal himself, kill the people chasing him, and leave. “ _ Fuck _ .”

“...Are you alright?”

He startles sharply at the voice, eyes widening as he scrambles backwards as much as he can with one arm. He ends up falling backwards in his rushed attempts, wincing when his head hits something particularly hard, likely a fallen log. 

Despite that and the ringing in his ears, he still finds it in himself to sit up, painfully slow, and tug out his knife from his leg holster, holding it in a threatening manner to the person he had just slammed into. He’s never been the best at combat, unfortunately, but this person doesn’t need to know that. Hopefully, the knife will scare him away before the people chasing him have the chance to finish what they started.

“Get away from me,” he spits, voice rasping harshly, and steps back, the knife wobbling dangerously in his arm. “If you come near me, I’ll— kill you and all of your shitty friends.”

“My friends,” the man echoes, sounding like it's a foreign concept to him. Keith frowns, making his way to his feet with his knife held tightly in his grip and his glare unwavering. “I don’t have friends, and certainly not with whoever seems to be looking for you. And, I’m very sorry to burst your bubble, but you look like you couldn’t kill a baby at the moment.”

“That’s your faul’,” he snaps, watching him cautiously as the man takes another step forwards, armour clanking against itself loudly. “You— broke my nose, prob’ly, and this stupid  _ cuff _ —“ he holds up his bloody hand, shaking it a few times to let him hear the jingling of the chain, “is stopping me from doing  _ anything _ . So, if you aren’t  _ friends _ wi’ them, then the least you could do is t’ get out of my  _ goddamn way. _ ”

The man stops moving at that moment, expression unchanging and as neutral as ever. Keith swallows thickly, watching as the man just  _ stands _ there and watches him right back. 

It takes a few more moments of Keith’s unease to settle before the man sighs and steps aside. Keith doesn’t say anything, only watching him cautiously as he sidesteps around the man, knife still held in a white knuckled grip.

He starts with a small step backwards, followed by another, before he spins on his heel and takes off as fast as his legs will carry him.

—~—

Of course, the small delay with that man had been enough time for the idiots chasing him to set up some  _ very _ elaborate trap.

By elaborate, he means stupid and easily avoidable, as it’s very clearly just a net lying on the ground. That doesn’t stop them from tackling him to the ground, however, and that’s how he finds himself with a new bruise on his face, the cuffs secured around his wrists, his ankles tied, and a thick, coarse noose hanging loosely around his neck. 

He’s not sure why they’re putting so much effort into this; couldn’t they just stab him and leave him for the ghouls? Do they want to see him suffer?

“There are much easier ways to go about this,” he mentions, as they finish doing whatever the fuck they’re doing behind him. A man in front of him grins, and raises his hand in a warning, as if that would threaten Keith. He merely rolls his eyes. 

“We know,” someone else says, and Keith stiffens when a hand drags lightly— nearly caressing him— up his back. It stays poised at his neck and he grimaces, fighting the urge to headbutt whoever’s behind him. It would only make them angrier, at this point. 

The hand lets go but Keith’s relief doesn’t last long. There’s a split second for him to work up the strength to headbutt the guy when the rope around his throat tightens, and suddenly, he’s choking, air leaving him in one fell swoop and leaving him gasping, feet kicking wildly as he’s pulled, pulled,  _ pulled… _

Instinctively, he reaches out with cuffed hands to tug at the rope as they continue lifting him, but nothing happens. He can barely get his pinky in between the rope and his skin before it’s pulled tighter, cutting off his choked noises entirely until his mouth is left open, gaping like a fish. 

Black fills the corners of his vision, turning everything blurry. The rush of blood in his ears is louder than the laughter of the five men below him. The wind— the wind that he’s supposed to  _ breathe _ — is cold against his skin; one of the only things on or apart of his body that doesn’t feel numb.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe— Can’t breathe, can’t  _ breathe _ —  _ can’t _ —

There’s a sharp noise, one he can barely hear, now, and—

Just like that, he can breathe again.

—~—

By the time he’s managed to gain his bearings, his breathing sounding more like a wheeze on every inhale and exhale, the hustle of the five men has stopped. The only noise nearby, aside from the howling gusts of the wind, is the whinnying of a horse— a whinnying that hadn’t been present earlier.

He frowns to himself, taking a few more minutes to relish in the feeling of simply breathing, listening to the impatient whining of the horse, before, finally, he gets his arms beneath him and braces himself on his forearm, legs immobile on the ground.

His neck, already aching with what is likely rope burn and pulled muscles, has a thick string of rope trailing from it and laying on the ground. Though his vision is still swimming, he finds himself following the line of rope through the grass until it comes to a stop with frayed and broken edges, clearly cut off.

How had  _ that _ happened?

He frowns again, swallows, and slowly lifts himself to a kneeling position. He lifts his hands — still cuffed, he notes with a wince — and tugs at the rope. He begins to fidget with the knots on the noose before looking around. 

It’s easy to find the horse, given how big and loud it is. What’s equally easy but not as unsurprising are the litter of corpses on the ground. There are a few missing body parts, he comes to find with a disgusted grimace, while another body has its head cut off, lying a few feet away. The last one, however…

A man, one he recognizes, is tearing his sword out of the chest of one of the fallen  _ assholes _ with a slick noise. He looks at his sword with that same unemotional, neutral look he gave Keith earlier. 

He slides the sword back into his sheath and turns… towards  _ him _ .

The expression on the man’s face hardens for a moment before he stalks towards him, slowly unsheathing the sword he had  _ just _ sheathed, holy  _ shit _ —

He does his best to scramble backwards with cuffed hands, ankles, and a rope around his neck. Somehow, he manages to step on the rope hanging from his neck, halting him even further, and he feels a scream build in his throat as the man appears a foot away, sword dangling from his arm.

Before Keith can retreat even further, the man reaches down with an annoyed look, grabbing his forearms. He fights it every step of the way, pulling away and aiming a kick to his stomach with bound legs, but it seems to barely phase the man.

There’s not much he can do but struggle to get out of his grip as the man lifts his sword, pulls on Keith’s outstretched arms, and brings it down harshly.

Keith almost screams right there and then, eyes squeezed shut and waiting with baited breath for the final blow. Shiro and Adam flash before his eyes; how will they find out? Will they think he left? 

What was the point of saving him from being hung if the man was just going to stab him?

There’s a sharp gust of air on his face and cold metal near his wrists, but after a few minutes…nothing else happens. No sword through the chest or severing his head. Nothing but… 

The hand the man isn’t holding is suddenly  _ free _ , and Keith, blinking his eyes open, looks up with surprise. The man merely offers a small and quick grin before pulling away entirely, sheathing his sword again.

“You’re welcome,” he says gruffly after a moment of Keith gawking. Keith blinks, blinks again, and looks down at his uncuffed hands and frowns. It helps that they aren’t attached, of course, but he’ll have to find some way to get these off entirely without his magic.

“I didn’t need your help,” he snaps in response, a scowl forming on his face. He shoves his arms beneath him again, getting to his feet, all while glaring at the man. Said man merely gives him an indignant look, one eyebrow raised and a small smirk on his lips. 

“I’m serious,” he snaps and dusts the dirt off of his cloak and chest. Again, he receives a raised eyebrow in response, and he has to stop himself from tearing off the cuffs and hurling a ball of fire at him. “I didn’t need your help, okay? I had it handled.”

The man scoffs, then, and turns from where he’s situated beside his horse, arms crossed over his chest. “And, pray tell, which part of that was handled? The noose  _ still _ around your neck? The dimeritium cuffs hanging from your wrists?”

Keith blinks, looks down at his cuffs, and a snarl breaks out onto his face. He scoffs angrily, letting his cloak fall in front of him and block his wrists from view of this man. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, and glares at the ground. The noose is still hanging from his neck, he notes, and he makes an annoyed groan when he brings his hands up to start untying it. “It’s not like you wanted to help me, anyways. If you’re looking for gold, look elsewhere. I won’t be—“

“Payment wasn’t my primary concern,” the man says, heaving himself onto his horse, and Keith sees the moonlight glint off of the chain around his neck. He squints, trying to make out the symbol on the coin, when the horse begins moving. “The cuffs are weak. Hit it hard enough, and they will break.”

With that, the man whips the reins on the horse, and they take off. Keith can just barely make out the symbol on the dangling coin as they take off, inhaling sharply when he finally sees it.

_ Witcher. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be no consistent updating schedule.,.,, like usual. chapter 2 is finished though, so it should be up soon !! i hope you enjoyed.!
> 
> thanks to my lovely beta [](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Featherstorm77/pseuds/Featherstorm77) featherstorm77 !! theyre great ngfl
> 
> as usual, comments and kudos are heavily appreciated <3 i hope you enjoyed!!!
> 
> EDIT: i tried to link her thing but it didnt work so here you go  
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/Featherstorm77/pseuds/Featherstorm77


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the spacig is really weird but it wont let me fix it on mobile and i dont have access to a laptop rn so im sorry :( ill fix it soon
> 
> some bits are steamy, but nothinf is NSFW!! dw
> 
> one again! thank you to my lovely beta feather <3
> 
> enjoy <3

The fiasco of being hung had nearly faded from his memory.

Of course, that was all due to a good old fashioned glass of ale every night at a nearby bar. Thankfully, it was in a town where most of the residents were nice and no one cared if he used magic—even if he wasn’t planning on using it anyway.

Tonight, Adam and Shiro had insisted on joining, and Keith knew for certain that Adam was planning to get hammered. Unfortunately, that would mean Shiro and Keith would have to deal with his drunken ass; something Keith was not looking forward to. Shiro might be, given their relationship, but Keith had never enjoyed having Adam cry when he was gone to get a drink of water for five minutes.

Adam giggles from his right, clutching Shiro’s arm so tightly Keith would be concerned for him if Adam wasn’t holding his fake arm. Shiro merely smiles in response, reaching up to gingerly pat his head in a soothing motion. Keith, who’s only a little tipsy, rubs his aching neck, sets his empty glass on the table, and gets up from the booth.

“No! Noooo,” Adam whines once Keith gets up, looking back and forth between Shiro and him, lips trembling. He presses his cheek to Shiro’s arm, sniffling miserably, and sinks further and further into the booth as Keith begins to walk towards the surprisingly crowded bar.

He can still hear Adam’s sad, mumbled protests as he approaches an empty spot at the bar. He watches the other people as he adjusts his cloak, waiting for the bartender to _turn the fuck around_ and notice him. While he waits, his gaze remains stuck on the two men; one _much_ smaller than the other. 

They seem to be the center of attention, and Keith can see why. Not only is someone yelling about beating a Witcher in an arm wrestling contest for a free round of ale, but the Witcher himself… he’s _gorgeous_.

Dark tanned skin, long white hair that flows gracefully down his back, stunning blue eyes, a thick, muscled build and a height that looms over his competitor. All of it combined rings a bell somewhere deep in Keith’s mind, but under the influence of at least three shots of ale, he couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen this man before.

That didn’t change how badly Keith wanted him, though. Well, that, and the free round of ale.

Witcher or not, he would win that match.

By the time the bartender begins to notice him, he gets up from his seat, moving towards the small crowd. He shoves his way through the burly men, receiving a laugh from one of them when they notice, and makes it to the front. 

The Witcher is staring down one of his opponents, hand held still and raised while the other man is pushing against it with both hands, a stark vein apparent against his neck, muscles bulging out of the skin as he tries to push the arm down to the table.

After a few more moments, the Witcher’s expression shifts into a barely noticeable smirk that disappears in seconds. Keith watches as his grip tightens and listens to the man shriek as the Witcher slams his hand into the bar, sending him toppling out of the stool and onto the floor.

Keith barely manages to suppress his own laugh as the man is hauled unceremoniously to his feet and then dragged away, being teased the entire time by people he assumes are the man’s friends.

“Anyone else dare to try and beat the _powerful_ Witcher?” the bard standing on the counter says coyly, plucking a strand on his lute. He looks down and winks at the Witcher, who only looks bored in response. “Or would you all rather stand there and start _bawking_ like _chickens?_ ”

Oh, _fuck_ no.

His original plan was to let the Witcher tire himself out, and maybe distract his way into winning after a few more rounds had gone by. Now, though… the bard is calling _them_ cowards? 

A scowl forms on his face, and he shoves aside a man who began stalking his way to the stool. He takes his seat there only seconds later, crossing his legs over one another and leaning against the bar with one arm, the other laying across his lap. He smiles sweetly, watching as the Witcher’s face morphs into one of shock when he sees Keith.

“ _You?_ ” the bard asks, looking more than just _shocked_. Keith directs his glare at the bard, nodding, before turning back to the Witcher. “Uh, okay. So, regular rules, then—“

“I’ve got it,” Keith snaps, interrupting the stupid bard, and flexes his fingers for the Witcher to grab. He shoots him a look, one eyebrow raised, and anxiously taps his fingers against his leg. “Do you, Witcher? Or do you need a few moments more to understand?”

The Witcher’s gaze hardens then and he leans forwards to clasp hands with him. Keith merely smiles in response, and waits patiently for the bard to announce that they can start.

“So, Witcher,” he says, using the most seductive voice he can muster, as the bard goes on some tangent, “Can I address you as something other than Witcher? It seems rather derogatory, don’t you think?”

The Witcher lets out an amused breath of air, meeting his eyes with a small, sarcastic smile to match Keith’s own.

“Lotor,” he says, still smiling, and Keith swears he sees his teeth sparkle. “Lotor of Daibazaal.”

Keith hums softly in response, leaning more into Lotor’s space, and reaches forwards to press his palm against his chest. Every fibre of his being protests as he drags his fingers down the chestplate, but he continues; he needs the distraction and, more importantly, needs another round of ale. 

“It suits you,” he says, slowly stopping his fingers as they reach his stomach. He slides his hand down to Lotor’s thigh and lets it stay there, fingers splayed out. “Keith of Altea.”

Lotor lets out a soft _hm_ noise in response, barely sparing a glance to the hand on his leg.

The bard finishes speaking and turns to them, a coy smile playing on his lips. He clearly expects Keith to lose, if the look says anything, but Keith knows he’s going to win.

“...and, start!”

The second Lotor’s eyes flick down to their arms, Keith surges forwards, using the hand on his leg as leverage. He presses his lips to Lotor’s harshly, eyes squeezed shut, and squeezes his thigh. Thankfully, Keith’s effort doesn’t go to waste; it startles Lotor enough that his grip goes slack and Keith seizes the opportunity. Tightening his own grip, he proceeds to press Lotor’s arm to the table and holds it there as his lips begin to move against his own. 

He nearly forgets about their arm wrestle as Lotor’s arm moves to wrap around his waist, and Keith’s free hand follows in turn, reaching up to cup the side of his neck. He leans into Lotor as much as he can without falling off the stool.

The crowd around them, having been silent before, now erupts with noise. It doesn’t phase them, but when the bard leans down and clears his throat harshly, Keith startles enough to gather his wits.

His cheeks are flushed heavily as he pulls away, but he somehow manages to keep himself from combusting. He stays close to Lotor’s face, lips pulled back into a smirk, and he plants his hand back onto Lotor’s chest.

“I’ll take that round of ale,” he breathes, words ghosting over the lips that had just been pressed against his own. He remains there for a few more moments, taking in Lotor’s still shocked expression, before pulling away entirely. The hand previously pinning down Lotor’s retreats back to his side, beneath the cloak, and he smiles in a smug manner. “Back booth, bard.”

He takes his precious time walking back to the booth, swaying his hips just a little more than necessary. The crowd that had previously formed is gone, bothering other people nearby. They likely departed when Keith started to make out with the Witcher. 

When he returns to their booth, smugness and pride both blooming in his chest, Adam is carving something into the table with Shiro’s knife, giggling to himself while Shiro watches with a small, amused smile. He notices Keith and offers a small wave, to which Keith reciprocates. Adam, however, looks up when Shiro waves, eyes wide and grinning hugely. He throws his arms out in an exaggerated manner, nearly stabbing Shiro in the nose in the process. Shiro pries it slowly from Adam’s hands, setting his hands free for when Keith takes a seat.

“Keith!” Adam cries, launching into his personal space and hugging him tightly— too tightly. Keith’s sigh sounds more like a wheeze as he struggles to breathe around Adam’s vice-like grip. He offers a gentle pat to Adam’s head as an acknowledgment to his presence. “I tho-thought you were g’nna be gone forever!”

“I wasn’t, see?” he gives a reassuring squeeze to the arm he’s attempting to pull away from his midsection. He casts Shiro a desperate glance as he continues pulling, but Shiro only responds with a smile that says _fuck you, you left me with him like this_.

“What were you doing?” Shiro, the traitor, asks, arms still by his side rather than helping to pry Adam off him. “The noise at the bar stopped when you left.”

Keith glares in response, lifting one of his arms away from Adam to flip Shiro off. “Not that you’re getting any,” he pauses, letting it sink in for Shiro before continuing, “but I was busy winning us a round of ale.”

“Yes!”

“No, Adam,” Shiro sighs, rubbing his forehead with an exasperated look. “You’re done for the night.”

Keith half listens to their conversation as Adam complains, finding himself staring at the back of the Witcher as he leaves. He frowns, the back somehow more familiar than his front had been. He tries to place it, but—

_“Fuck!”_

_A man, tan skin illuminated by the light of the moon, dressed entirely in black and violet armour. Long, white hair flows down his back, covered in grime and dirt. Sharp blue eyes that pin him to the ground. A horse stands by his side, whinnying quietly._

_“...Are you alright?” Lotor asks._

—He gasps sharply, reaching up to feel his neck. It stings slightly at the touch but it’s much better than it had been before.

It would’ve been worse, though, if Lotor hadn’t stepped in.

“Keith? Are you—“

“I’m fine, Shiro,” he snaps sharply, maybe a little too sharply, and begins to push away from the booth. He doesn’t have to get Adam away from him, thankfully, as he’s moved back to his carving. 

He swallows thickly, shaking his head when Shiro begins to open his mouth again. “Seriously. I just— I have something I need to take care of.”

“...Alright. Let us know if—”

He’s gone before he can hear the rest of the sentence, making his way around and through drunken idiots to the tavern doors.

While he’s not sure _why_ he needs to find Lotor so bad, it's something he really needs to do and he can’t stop himself from trying. What’s the harm, anyway?

The moment he reaches the doors, he bursts through them, Lotor’s name on the tip of his tongue. 

The word dies before it even passes his lips. The area is too small for Lotor to slip away from without him noticing, which means… Lotor isn’t there.

He sighs, shoulders slumping, and turns back towards the door.

He’ll likely never see Lotor again, and he doesn’t know why the thought makes him so upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is NO promised schedule as of yet. my school schedule is fuckin wild so i cant promise anything . im only posting chapter 2 bc im excited, yall are waiting very patiently, and its been a while. chapter 3, cutrently, is only half written :(
> 
> for those of you who thought the witcher was shiro, im sorry :(( my og plan was always lotor. i hope youll still enjoyed<3
> 
> on that note! tell me what you thought? comments and kudos are appreciated!!
> 
> EDIT: Next update!! March 12th, 2020 (hopefully)


	3. Chapter 3: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay!! i changwd the update date but i doubt most saw. anyways!! 
> 
> without further adue (ado??), please thank my lovely beta featherstorm77 and dealing with my 828374 typos with new nails, and enjoy!!

Keith hates this village more than he hates Galra.

This village is far more racist than the last, but still has plenty of contracts for Witchers to complete. No matter who he approached, he received a scoff and a ‘go away, mage’, whenever he tried to ask about the amount of contracts they had prepared.

The carnage of the newest contract was evident in the buildings; large scratch marks tore into the sides of buildings, dirt was scuffed up on the roads, and there were still empty sheep corpses lying around that had yet to be cleaned up. The sight was horrifying, to say the least, but none of it compared to the devastated look on the villager’s faces as they cradled corpses of children.

The sight was disturbing, but it didn’t deter Keith enough to leave the village.

He ended up taking a seat on a stair near an inn, chin in hand and watching the villagers pass by with a dark glare. The few children that passed didn’t look afraid of him, but rather… intrigued. It confused him to no end; if they knew he was a mage, why weren’t they afraid? 

“Mister,” one says, jogging up to him. His hands are hidden behind his back, and Keith sighs inwardly. This happened plenty of times before; a parent giving their child something to kill him with, thinking Keith wouldn’t suspect it. “Mister!”

Keith sighs again, casting his gaze to the small, barefooted child covered in dirt. He lessens his glare, but doesn’t let it disappear entirely. “Whatever your parent has lovingly requested you give to me, I—“

The child’s gaze focuses on him, confusion etched into their features, and they shake their head. They point above his head, and Keith follows the direction with a frown on his face. What meets the eye is shocking, to say the least, and outright disturbing.

It’s Lotor.

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me,” he mutters, turning back around and burying his face in his palms. 

It’s just his luck to run into the one person he doesn’t want to run into; he shouldn’t have been surprised.

The child continues on, seemingly unfazed by his profanity, and begins to move his hand from behind his back as footsteps echo behind him. They don’t continue for long, and when Keith finds it in himself to lift his reddening face, he sees Lotor lowering himself to a perch beside him. Lotor doesn’t spare the time to look at him, his gaze stuck on the child as he babbles away, a small, yellow juniberry clutched tightly in his tiny palm. Keith feels bad for the juniberry; the child looks like he’s crushing the stem.

When the child finishes speaking, he offers the flower to Lotor, who offers a small smile in exchange, taking the juniberry in nimble fingers and twisting it around in his hand.

“Thank you,” Lotor says to the child, voice uncharacteristically soft, and nods at the child. In turn, the child smiles brightly and bounds off to his group of friends who are frowning in their direction. 

They’re both silent for the next few moments— not that Keith has anything to say— watching the child run off with his friends into a nearby field. Lotor hums softly, and Keith turns to watch him twist the flower over in his hand a few times before looking up with a small sigh. He frowns as Lotor faces him, holding up the flower with a raised eyebrow.

“Have you been following me?” He blurts it without thinking, but it doesn’t faze him. It would make sense, after all; everywhere he’s been in the last few weeks, Lotor has magically been there, taking a major role in Keith’s life for the better part of an hour before leaving.

They hadn’t met too often, but considering they had never met before, it struck Keith as odd and… stalker-y. Sometimes, he appreciated it— like when Keith had been scavenging for a blue flower with red thorns, and Lotor had caught a falling tree before it crushed him. Other times, he didn’t appreciate it nearly as much, but the harshness he had given Lotor was earned. In one town, the last time they met, he interrupted a deal Keith was trying to broker. The civilian recognized the Witcher crest and was practically ran out of the racist town for even knowing one. Sure, it was nice to be out of there since they only barely tolerated mages, but the town was rich! Shiro and Adam had been buying so many healing salves for the dimeritium burns on his wrists and materials to better hide him, and he needed to make up for it.

After a few moments, instead of an angered outburst like he had been expecting, Lotor merely casts him a look and chuckles softly.

“No, I have not been,” he tells him, still smiling very softly. “It’s merely a matter of coincidence.”

“Coincidences don’t happen so often,” Keith retorts, raising an eyebrow, “nor is the other person usually so important in my life.”

“Important in your life?” Lotor repeats, a smug grin situated on his face.

His cheeks flush and he whips his eyes away from Lotor. “Not like that! Just—“

“I don’t know,” Lotor hums, “I think you mean it like that. We did make out, after all—“

“Oh, shut up,” Keith snaps in response, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not my fault you can’t get over that loss. I won, and quite frankly, it’s kind of sad that you can’t get over it.”

The reaction he wanted is received; it takes all of three seconds for Lotor’s eyebrows to twitch and for him to lose his composure. Keith smirks, leaning back on his palms, as Lotor opens his mouth.

“You cheated—“

“Witcher!”

Lotor’s head whips towards the source of the yell, ending their short conversation as a burly man approaches, looking angry. Keith frowns as he approaches, taking in his appearance, the tattoos decorating his bare arms, and the scar cutting through his right, wide open eye. He shrinks back when the man comes to a stop in front of them. Lotor, however, doesn’t seem as intimidated as Keith feels. 

Something about how the tattoos travel from the underside of his jaw to his hands is making him wary, but it should be fine. 

He’ll be fine.

“I called your name, Witcher,” the man barks, and Lotor smiles impatiently, letting his hands clasp together and hang in the space between his knees. “It’s common courtesy to respond.”

Lotor stays silent, merely watching as the angered man comes to a stop in front of them. A small crowd has grown, and to Keith’s dismay, they all have similar tattoos as the man demanding Lotor’s attention. Whether or not Lotor notices is lost to him; he meets Keith’s eyes for a split second before going back to staring at the angry man.

“Witcher—”

“Actually,” Lotor speaks up, cutting off the man in front of them, “Witcher is simply a title.”

The man’s face grows into something even angrier and Keith swallows thickly, shifting a little closer to Lotor. He hopes Lotor doesn’t notice, but he’s proven otherwise when Lotor sways slightly to the right to let their shoulders touch. He doesn’t know if Lotor is trying to reassure him or just shifting in his seat, but either way, it helps to quell the unease steadily growing.

“Do not toy with me, Witcher. You know what your name is in these lands.”

“Right.” Lotor sighs, rolls his eyes, and raises an eyebrow at the man. Keith merely frowns, eyeing him and the crowd— who he’s beginning to think is the man’s group— warily. Their tattoos are familiar, but he can’t tell why. “What is it?”

The man smiles in response, his yellow, sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight. Keith fights the urge to gag. “We have a contract for you.”

The man’s disgusting grin washes away his amusant at Lotor’s sigh of annoyance. “Explain.” 

—~—

“You can’t possibly think I’ll let you do this—”

“Why not?” Keith snaps, glaring down at Lotor from where he stands on the top stair. The men from earlier have disappeared, but he can still feel their gazes burning into his back. “I’m perfectly capable—“

“Capable?”

“Yes, capable!” he snaps, shoving at Lotor’s shoulder. He makes his way down the steps, a scowl hanging heavy on his face. “I beat you in an arm wrestle—“

“By cheating—“

“And I’ve fought ghouls before and won!”

Lotor sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index as Keith shoves past him. Lotor’s hand seizes his bicep and he whips around, anger boiling in his blood. Lotor has no right to tell him what he can or can’t do.

“Keith, ghouls are far different from werewolves. They’re easier to kill. Werewolves… Keith, I cannot allow you to go out there alone. It’s a suicide mission for you—“

“I can handle this,” he says, finally, scowl fading and pulling at his arm. Lotor’s grip doesn’t lessen, but it was worth a shot. “Just trust me.”

Lotor closes his eyes, sighing once more. Keith thinks he’s going to agree, but the way Lotor’s hand tightens around his arm says otherwise. He shakes his head, and Keith feels the frown reform.

“Go home, Keith.”

Keith holds still, glaring up at Lotor, waiting for him to change his mind. 

When Lotor merely stares back in response, Keith huffs angrily, pulling harshly at his arm and taking a step back. “Fine. Have fun getting mauled without me.”

He doesn’t wait for Lotor’s response, instead spinning on his heel and quickly walking away. Who is Lotor to tell him what to do? Keith is a grown man— eighty nine years old, even— and he can do whatever the fuck he wants. 

Whispering a spell beneath his breath, he turns to make sure Lotor is walking away before following. As he had hoped, there’s no audible footsteps when he walks along the gravel path. The spell won’t last long, but he hopes it will last long enough to let him sneak around to follow Lotor without him noticing.

Lotor will be able to find the werewolf, and when that happens, Keith will be ready. He’ll get his dues, and by then, he won’t have to deal with Lotor anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betcha noticed the new chapter count ;)
> 
> Chapter Three, Part 2: March 26th, 2020


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